All Good Children - Catherine Austen [84]
He stares at me like he hates me.
“You can’t walk away from something like this. You do this and that’s it, man, you go to jail, you don’t go anywhere else.”
He runs his tongue over his teeth, waiting for my lecture to end.
I slap his face. “Do you hear me? Get control of yourself. Look what you’re doing. Look where we are. Remember all the kids who used to be in this trailer? Remember our friends? We are all that’s left, man. We have to get out of here, Dallas. You’re not thinking straight.”
He leans away from me, looks around the trailer, stares up at his coat wrapped over the security camera. He furrows his brow, scratches his elbow, lifts up the sleeve of his uniform and tugs down a roll of duct tape he had jammed around his forearm.
“Oh, Jesus, no. That’s the principal, Dallas. This is assault. You stop now, you’re fine. It was an accident. He got hurt when I tackled you. The bench fell on his head. Leave it like this. You’re going to get us both executed!”
He pushes me away from him, sits on his ass, sucks in his cheeks. He nods. His eyes soften. He glances at Mr. Graham and asks, “Is he alive?”
I get on my knees and feel for a pulse. “He’s fine.” The principal’s mouth is bleeding. A huge bruise blooms across his torn cheek and a cartoon lump rises on his forehead. “He’ll have some swelling. He should have his head checked.” I lean back and try to think of a plan. “We should put him in recovery position,” I say, not moving an inch, just staring at Mr. Graham prone at our feet.
Dallas starts to curse, an aimless barrage of swear words that seem to soothe him. “You shouldn’t have hit me. I would have told on you if I’d really been treated.”
“I didn’t care.”
He rubs his cheek. “What’s with the slapping? Could you not hit me properly?”
“Are you okay now? You were far gone, man. You weren’t really going to kill him, were you?”
He snorts, stretches his neck, stares at the ceiling. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“We have to get out of here. We have to leave tonight.”
He smiles sadly. “I’m not coming with you, Max. I don’t want to get caught. Your mom will go to jail for kidnapping. You’ll be treated and so will I. I’m not taking that chance.” He waves a hand toward Mr. Graham. “Now they’ll be after you for this too.”
“This was an accident. Sort of.”
“I can stay here and tell them that.”
“I can’t leave you here.”
He laughs as he grabs my hand, which I realize I’ve wrapped around his lapel again. “Honestly, I’m not that way, Max. Give it up.”
I’m not smiling this time. “You’re coming with us or we’re not going.”
“They won’t let you take me out of the country.”
“My cousin said other families are leaving with no problem. Lots of them.”
“Families, Max. We are not a family. I can’t pass for your brother.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, all mature now.
“We’re cinnamon and garlic, remember?”
I do remember, and the solution to our problem hits me so hard, it’s a flash in my brain that actually hurts. I grab his hand with both of mine and laugh.
He pushes me away. “Stop it! Enough with the touching.”
I jump to my feet, smiling. “You got it, Dallas! What you just said. That’s exactly right.”
“About what?”
“Salt and pepper.”
“We’re going to wear our Halloween costumes to Canada? Is that your distraction strategy? ‘We’re not runaways, officer— we’re shakers?’”
“No! But they’ll let us cross. They will.” Energy pulses through me. I could run a five-minute mile. “We have to get out of here.” I run my hands over the principal, check his airways and circulation. “We have to find a teacher to take him to the hospital. Can you go out there and be a zombie again?”
Dallas shakes his head. “I’m never going out there again.” He picks up everything he can reach from where he sits— weight belts, jump ropes, helmets—and piles them on his legs. “Can you pass me that shield? Thanks.” He leans back and props a long red pad over his torso and head. “I’m going